


Leather

by apple_pi



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, PWP, Smut, but leather kilts exist to be abused, kilt abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-20
Updated: 2005-01-20
Packaged: 2018-07-27 08:46:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7611400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy is wearing a nice cable-knit sweater in a satisfying cream color; he is wearing unlaced black boots and argyle socks. He is wearing a kilt, which fact alone is enough to dry Dom’s mouth in any number of satisfying ways. Billy in a kilt has, in the past, caused such spectacular sexual collisions as Close Encounters of the Broom Closet Kind, the Dry-cleaning Debacle of Dunedin (NZ), and the Great SAG Shag of Ought-Four, among others. And those were just regular kilts. (Just! Ha.) Those other kilts, in the light of The One Kilt (as Dom’s brain immediately labels this one), are blown away. Those other kilts are Norman archers boasting about their kick-ass crossbows, and The One Kilt is a hydrogen bomb—a nucleus-splitting, chaos-releasing, Apocalypse-summoning harbinger of post-blast winter in which those other kilts wither to ash, burned away by the red-hot smoking thermonuclear incandescence of The One Kilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leather

Bored. Bored bored bored bored bored bored bored. Dom makes a face at the Playstation. Makes a face at his journal—feels guilty for not keeping up with it lately, feels massive ennui at the idea of actually writing in it. He squints across the room at the DVD shelf, but he can’t read the titles from here, and can’t think of anything he wants to watch, anyway. He could finish memorizing that script… Enh. He could… He could… What could he do? 

Sloth. Yes, he could develop a more perfect relationship with Sloth.

Dominic Monaghan, King of the Slackers. Lord of the Lazy. Master of the Malingerers. Malingerons? Malingerrrr…ites? He decides that figuring out the correct form of that particular word would be completely out of character for the new Dom, who hereby renounces the other Six Deadlies in favor of conquering (in a really laid-back way) the new favorite: Sloth.

He slides down until he’s boneless on the sofa, head propped up accidentally at one end, feet sprawled lazily, toes pointing to nine and two. One arm hangs off the edge, and sure, it’s uncomfortable, but lifting it? Too much effort. Dom allows his body to meld to the settee. The nubby upholstery feels nice against his bare back, nice under his denim-clad arse. _Become one with the sofa, Dominic_ , he chants silently. Feel the sofaness. Sofaiety. Sofistry. He has to stop because he snorts and that begins to engage his brain and he’s being slothful, dammit… Be the sofa. Be the sofa. Sink into the sofa. Love the sofa, become one with the… zzzzz.

“God, you’re pathetic.” It’s a Scottish voice, and the Scots, as everyone knows, do not embrace Sloth as their Number One Deadly Sin. Avarice, maybe, with its drinking buddy Miserliness. Pride would probably star in the Top Three, with Wrath rounding it out nicely, Dom decides. “Here for three days and you’ve hardly left that settee or the bed the entire time.”

Dom keeps his eyes firmly shut and hopes he hasn’t drooled on himself. “Be quiet, I’m becoming one with the sofa.”

“Well, pinch it off. I need your opinion on something, and you’ll need your eyes for it.”

“Can’t be bothered.”

“Dominic, open your eyes.”

“No.”

“Dominic.” Is ‘Irritating Persistence’ a deadly sin?

Dom lets out a snore.

“Dom, I have to figure out what to wear to that bloody stupid arsing dinner tonight and m’friend sent me this sodding thing and I can’t decide if I can get away with it or not, so could you please just give me your opinion though I don’t know why I ask since you’ve the fashion sense of Dame Edna on heroin anyway.”

And Dom opens his eyes, mostly in order to deliver a stinging rebuttal to this grossly unjust maligning of his cutting-edge sense of style. Just because Billy usually dresses like Maggie Thatcher’s maiden uncle—

But these words never reach the aether, because Dom’s optic nerves bypass his mouth entirely and begin transmitting signals directly to regions south upon seeing the sartorial splendor which is Billy. He is _not_ dressed like Maggie Thatcher’s maiden uncle, and Lust suddenly vaults (back) to the top of Dominic Monaghan’s Personal Favourite Deadly Sins.

Billy is wearing a nice cable-knit sweater in a satisfying cream color; he is wearing unlaced black boots and argyle socks.

He is wearing a kilt, which fact alone is enough to dry Dom’s mouth in any number of satisfying ways. Billy in a kilt has, in the past, caused such spectacular sexual collisions as Close Encounters of the Broom Closet Kind, the Dry-cleaning Debacle of Dunedin (NZ), and the Great SAG Shag of Ought-Four, among others.

And those were just regular kilts. (Just! Ha.) Those other kilts, in the light of The One Kilt (as Dom’s brain immediately labels this one), are blown away. Those other kilts are Norman archers boasting about their kick-ass crossbows, and The One Kilt is a hydrogen bomb—a nucleus-splitting, chaos-releasing, Apocalypse-summoning harbinger of post-blast winter in which those other kilts wither to ash, burned away by the red-hot smoking thermonuclear incandescence of The One Kilt.

The One Kilt is leather.

It looks like leather. And when Dom flattens Billy against the wall (one-point-five seconds after he sees The One Kilt) and slides his hand down over and then up under it, it feels like leather, slick and smooth and stiff under his palm. And when he drops to his knees (one-point-five seconds after he flattens Billy against the wall) and presses his nose against it, it _smells_ like leather, mouth-watering and delicious and… leathery. And when Dom puts out his tongue (one-point-five seconds after dropping to his knees) and licks it, it tastes like leather, smoky and soapy and buttery. And when he dives lower and then pushes it up with his forehead (one-point-five seconds after licking it), it even sounds like leather, creaky and unwieldy and yet perfectly, essentially supple.

Billy’s back hits the wall and all the breath leaves his lungs in a whuff. His sporran bops Dom’s nose as Dom’s eager face nuzzles the soft, sleek black material and then dips under it to inhale the heady scent of Billy’s warm, sweaty skin mingled with that of the leather.

“Holy—” Billy manages to say, and then his eyes roll back and his knees buckle as Dom’s mouth slides over his cock, down there in the damp, dark (leathery) space under the kilt. Dom’s ready for him, though, and he holds Billy upright with his hands braced just below Billy’s knobby (cute, slightly hairy) knees while his mouth is busy. Licking, sucking, biting gently, and the response is entirely satisfactory as Billy’s cock goes from absent-minded quiescence to full red-alert status within a gratifyingly short time. Dom sucks fiercely, rewarded by the salty tang of pre-come on his tongue and the return of Billy’s vocal capability, evidenced by a sudden “Fuckyeahfuck” and an urgent push into Dom’s mouth that nearly chokes him. Billy’s hands are suddenly grasping for Dom’s hair, and his knees lock as his hips decide that if one thrust is good, ten or twenty must be better.

Dom finds his hands free and slides them up Billy’s thighs to cup his arse and then grasp his sharp hipbones, controlling the thrusts to something slightly less asphyxiating. He _mmm_ s around Billy’s cock, laughs at the buck this creates, then gurgles (a little desperately, truth be told) as this, in its turn, has an effect. “So you like the kilt, yeah?” Billy pants from somewhere above, up in the world of refreshing breezes and light and oxygen.

Dom nods vigorously (that produces an interesting sort of whimper) and pulls his head back, out from under the fragrant tropical night between Billy’s thighs. He stands up, keeping one hand firmly on Billy’s spit-slick cock and grinding him back against the wall for a minute. “I like this kilt, Bill,” he confirms. He shuffles backward, pulling Billy with him. God, boys have all the best toys, and it’s truly fabulous that those toys make such convenient handles, too. Billy follows willingly, eyes blazingly green in his flushed face.

“Where’re we going?” 

Dom tows him down the hall, his free hand sliding up and down Billy’s arse, over the slipperysoft leather. “Into the bedroom.” In they go and Dom lets go of his find and wrestles the sweater from Billy’s pale torso, turns him around and bends him carefully over the (lovely, antique, walnut-stained) vanity. “Gonna push this fanbloodytastic kilt up around your marvelous bloody waist and fuck you so hard you fucking cry, Bill,” Dom grits out. He’s wriggling his hips hypnotically as he says it, and the jeans, which were only being held up by prayer and one hopelessly over-worked button anyway, slide obediently down to his ankles, freeing him to rub his enthusiastic erection against the kilt. The One Kilt, he reminds himself. As if he needed to be reminded.

Billy stares at him in the mirror and drops his head onto his hands. “I haven’t even gotten to wear the damn thing out in public,” he moans, but his resistance is verbal only, and when Dom fumbles open the top drawer (banging it into Billy’s hip but luckily nothing too vital), he swats his hand aside, reaches into the drawer, draws out the lube, slaps it into Dom’s palm, and closes the drawer without ever looking up.

He does look up about a minute later as Dom pushes slowly into him, slick and hard and tight-tight-tight. Billy rests his chin on his hands and breathes in and out slowly, willing himself to relax and past the tingly stretch and burn of it, enjoying Dom’s slightly demented expression in the mirror. It makes for a lovely image, and Billy’s face gets pinker as he watches. His body responds, too, and Dom feels it, looks up to meet Billy’s eyes in the glass and watch as the frown smooths from his face, watch as Billy’s lids sag down to half-mast. “Okay, Bills?” Dom’s voice is tender, at distinct odds with the fierce cant of his eyebrows and his gleaming blue eyes.

“S’good,” Billy replies, and he shifts slightly, pushes his body up and away from the dresser and braces himself with his hands along the edge. Now his back makes a lovely curve and Dom leans over to nuzzle it briefly before gripping the bunched up leather of The One Kilt on either side of Billy’s hips with both hands and shoving himself inward. “Fuck!” Billy cries, and Dom agrees wholeheartedly.

Actions speak louder than words, so Dom repeats the thrust to show his agreement, and then again, and again, until a grueling pace is set and his face is as rosy as Billy’s, both of them gasping and grunting, the only other noise the creak of the leather (Jesusfuckingchrist that sound alone is almost enough to make Dom come, and he groans aloud) and the wet slap and slide of skin against skin.

Billy’s voice again suddenly— “FuckDomfuckplease I cannae do it yougottajerkmenow—” and Dom leans down (Billy yelps happily, a high sound that’s music to Dom’s ears) and reaches under the leather (slick on the underside with sweat and other, tastier fluids) to grip Billy’s iron-hard erection. He glares into the mirror, stares as Billy’s face goes hot red, his curlicue mouth drops open and green eyes slide shut completely. “God yeah!” Billy cries, and Dom squeezes Billy tightly, grips and slides his hand up and down the damp hot skin until Billy’s face scrunches up and he yells incoherently and comes, wrenching his body first forward and then back, slamming himself onto Dom’s cock so hard Dom sees stars for a moment and scrabbles wildly for a handhold, finding it on Billy’s slippery hip and pounding into him four more times before his own climax shudders through him, out him, into Billy (sprawled chest- and face-down on the vanity, legs shaking from the effort of holding himself up), into oblivion.

Dom lies atop his mate, sweaty chest stuck to Billy’s slick back, heaving for breath like an astronaut with a leaky helmet. 

“Get off,” Billy demands after a minute or two, and Dom moans and doesn’t move, so Billy has to struggle, pushing himself up from the surface of the dresser (sticky and warm with his exertions) and forcing Dom to either straighten or slide off onto the floor.

Careful consideration sees Dom cheerfully to the carpet, where he lolls and watches as Billy groaningly hauls himself erect. He keeps his hands on the edge of the bureau and stares down at himself. “Well, this is a fine mess,” he says with disgust. “Dammit, Dom, didn’t anyone ever teach you not to arse up your good clothes?”

“Those are your good clothes.” Sloth is king once again, as far as those Deadly Sins go, and Dom yawns and oozes his way across the floor and onto the bed.

Billy unfastens The One Kilt and stands hipshot, wearing only the black boots and argyle socks. Dom admires this rear view as Billy turns the leather around and examines the damage. “What the feck am I supposed to tell Bob?” he grumbles. He disappears into the loo and the sounds of running water and cursing emerge. 

Dom, meanwhile, has begun his mantra again: Become one with the bed, Dominic, he chants silently. Feel the mattressity. Be the duvet. Be the bed. Love the bed. Sink into the bed. Be the bed… Eventually, after a long enough time that Dom’s half-dozing again, Billy stomps back out, still naked but for his boots.

Dom feels a mild stirring of wakefulness. Is Lust creeping back up the charts? “D’you get it clean?” he asks mildly, in the interests of peacemaking.

Billy glares at him from the foot of the bed. His hair stands up in wild disarray, and his skinny legs look… just… edible, disappearing into the heavy black boots. “No,” he says shortly. “I think it needs professional help. And how’m supposed to explain its current state…” He runs his hands through his hair, blushing at the thought.

Yes, Lust is giving Sloth a good run for its money; Dom sits up and crawls across the bed to sit right by Billy. “What was your original question about that kilt?”

“I wanted to know,” Billy replies, enunciating each word as though Dominic is a particularly slow student in a parochial school on rather the slow side of a slow town, “whether or not I should wear that kilt to the dinner tonight.”

“Oh.” Dom pushes himself to his knees and wraps his arms around Billy’s chest. “I don’t think you should.” He rubs his cheek up and down Billy’s narrow sternum and sticks his tongue out sideways and takes a messy swipe at one pink nipple. “I think that’s strictly a stay-at-home kilt.”

Billy sighs and rests his (pointy, hard) chin on Dom’s head. “Do you think so?”

“In fact I think you should just give up on clothing altogether,” Dom goes on. “At least for now. I think you should call and tell them you’ve caught something, and you can’t manage to get out of bed at all.” He slides his hands down, squeezing Billy’s bare arse. “For a week.”

Billy groans a laugh. “Dominic…”

“Hmm?” Dom has slid down and is nuzzling at Billy’s limp cock with his nose and lips.

Billy sighs. “You’re insatiable.”

“Mmm.” Dom’s attentions are having an effect.

“And right.” Billy grasps Dom’s shoulders gently and pushes him backward, lowering himself to lay full-length atop the younger man. “Wanna play nurse?”

“I think I can have you feeling better in no time, Mr. Boyd,” Dom purrs. “But I’m afraid you’ll need lots of time in bed.” The boots are digging into his shins and he kind of likes it.

Billy grins at him and rocks his hips gently from side to side, producing noticeable effects in Dom’s nether regions. “You’re cooking,” he says.

“Like I’d eat your cooking,” Dom snorts. “And I can teach you my new mantra, too.”

Billy flips him over and begins licking his way slowly down Dom’s back. “What’s that?”

Dom shivers with pleasure, turning his head so as not to suffocate in the pillow. He pulls one knee up to allow Billy easy access to his bits in the very near future. “Become one with the bed. Feel the mattressity. Be the duvet. Be the bed. Love the bed. Sink into the bed. Be the bed—” He yelps as Billy reaches a vital juncture in his anatomy.

“I like it,” Billy says, lifting his head for a moment.

“I developed it in pursuit of a more perfect relationship with Lust,” Dom lies shamelessly, and sighs happily, pushing his arse into the air (and toward Billy’s seeking mouth). “God, I love a good sin.”


End file.
